


Nobody Likes You When You're Twenty-Three

by Liralen



Series: Rookie of the Year [1]
Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Angry Sex, Angst, First Time, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-07
Updated: 2011-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:56:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liralen/pseuds/Liralen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All rookies are arrogant if they're worth anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody Likes You When You're Twenty-Three

He can't tell if it's something about his voice, or something about his smile (too many goddamn teeth), or something about him being 23 years old with a bat like a stick of thunder and a form like mortal sin, but something about the kid pisses Zito off. Something about kids _always_ pisses Zito off, but this one more than most. He's been the "old man" since he was 26 years old, and he's pretty fucking well sick of it.

He watches Posey move through the party, all poured honey hair and effortless charm, that stupid flash of even teeth that's a lie, smiles that say _I'm just happy to be here_ when his eyes tell a different story. Arrogant. That's about right, all rookies are arrogant if they're worth anything, so why does it set his teeth on edge? It's possible Zito's a little drunk. It's very possible, sprawled out in a lay-z-boy in Tim Hudson's living room with his eyes shuttered and a microbrew warming rapidly in one hand, that Zito is far past drunk and into the familiar territory of cliche.

\--Hudson? No, Lincecum. He thought Lincecum.

"It's too nice a night to be thinkin' that hard."

Zito lets him wait, lets his eyes crawl up the long denim-clad expanse of Posey's thighs, the gleam of his belt, the nonsense scribbles and silver-edged designs scrawled across his t-shirt. He lingers on the hollow beneath his throat, the baby-soft curve of his jaw, the smooth hairless dip between nose and lip. When he finally make eye contact, he's annoyed and just a little thrown to see that Posey's still smiling.

"What should I be doing, then?" Zito asks. Faint sneer in his voice when he says, "Give me the sign, kid."

Posey's smile, if anything, stretches wider, shines whiter, his eyes bright with it, and Zito realizes belatedly that the kid is very drunk.

"Havin' fun," Posey tells him. He talks too fast to drawl, but the soft roll of his accent is warm and familiar. Too familiar. Zito takes a drink to forestall the thought, nearly spits out the mouthful of tepid beer but holds on, draining the bottle until his teeth clack against the glass. He gnaws absently on the ridged neck of the bottle, a bad habit, something always occupying his mouth when he's deep in thought. He watches Posey's eyes narrow and lock, watches his shoulders go back and his mouth open, and part of Zito is thinking _interesting_ , and part of him is thinking _not too subtle_ , _kid_. The rest of him isn't thinking at all, busy navigating the halls and doorways of Lincecum's house, searching out cool and quiet and dark, occupied with the simple mechanics of door locks and zippers and fevered skin.

"That's more like it," Posey mumbles approvingly, and Zito has to bite his own lip hard, wondering if he could laugh right now and still keep Posey's mouth rightthere under his chin. Then the kid's working a hand down the front of Zito's jeans, pressing and teasing, teeth set in a grin against his neck, and Zito doesn't feel like laughing anymore.

Posey freezes when Zito wraps a hand around his throat, pushes him back against the door and holds him there. His smile falters, and Zito expected to find some satisfaction in that, but he doesn't.

"You think you're what I want?" Zito asks, close enough that they're sharing breath. Posey's eyes flare wide with surprise, and when it dies he isn't smiling anymore, but he isn't scared, either.

"I'm what everyone wants," the kid tells him. It's the kind of thing that should make Zito crazy, make his hand tighten and twist, crush the breath from Posey's throat, but. There's something new in his voice. It isn't arrogance, now. It's something darker, harder to define, and of everything he could have shown him, it's something Zito understands.

Zito's hand eases on his throat, but he doesn't let go. "I've had 23-year-olds twice as pretty as you," Zito mumbles, but there's no heat behind it. He covers Posey's mouth with his own, parts his lips with his tongue and kisses him almost gently, and he feels a shiver run the length of the kid's body and escape his mouth in a moan.

"I know," Posey says. He flexes his hand, still caught beneath the waistband of Zito's jeans, and his breath trembles out in relief when the older man groans and pushes against him. "I know, but I'm here now."

Zito kisses him hard, and suddenly everything is motion and frantic heat again. They're groping and arching and biting and swearing, and Zito isn't thinking about pretty 23-year-olds except the one he's got in his arms, he isn't thinking about accents, he isn't thinking at all. He's always been too much inside his own head. He's just moving, falling off the mound and trusting his catcher, the lighted scoreboard in his head flashing zeroes, and there's nothing, nothing, nothing but this.


End file.
